


it’s always you

by eyeronicmuch



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Summer Romance, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 20:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18818668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeronicmuch/pseuds/eyeronicmuch
Summary: “You know, I’ve been thinking about this a lot.” Ten muses. “Why we met – it’s definitely not a coincidence.” The wind is blowing softly from the east, messing up his hair a little. Somehow, at this moment, Ten looks flawless, more than he always does, with his hair ruffled, smile prominent, eyes twinkling with little stars.“Not a coincidence?” Kunhang retorts. “Circumstances made us meet. Simple as that.”“Oh, Kunhangie,” Ten pats his head softly. It’s a gesture Kunhang finds both endearing and the complete opposite of the word, having a heavy dislike to being babied, especially by Ten, “you are still so young, so naïve, or maybe I’m naïve.” He laughs in between. “Do you really think that us, me and you, meeting in Washington,  under a pharmacy and then meeting again, years later, in Moscow, out of all places, is a mere coincidence? Impossible!”“What do you suppose it is, then?” Kunhang asks, and Ten flashes him his signature blinding smile, one that never fails to take his breath away.“Why, fate, of course.”





	it’s always you

**Author's Note:**

> can i just say tendery are so adorable ;; also just a heads up this is a mess and probably has typos !! but i skimmed over this a couple of times and couldn't find anything but you never know dksjfk
> 
> the non linear narrative shouldn’t be confusing, it’s only time jumps from the past to the present 
> 
> also a huge thanks to isabel for putting up with me!! ilysm :[

“You know, I’ve been thinking about this a lot.” Ten muses. “Why we met – it’s definitely not a coincidence.” The wind is blowing softly from the east, messing up his hair a little. Somehow, at this moment, Ten looks flawless, more than always he does, with his hair ruffled, smile prominent, eyes twinkling with little stars. 

“Not a coincidence?” Kunhang retorts. “Circumstances made us meet. Simple as that.” 

Ten is walking on the curb, left from Kunhang, who was standing closer to river, taking careful steps. He clings to Kunhang for support, even though they both know that Ten had perfect balance from years of dancing. Kunhang doesn't mind though, not at all – he cherishes the little moments where Ten or he are bolder around each other, however, none of them make the first move. Because of the curb, Ten appears taller than Kunhang, by a few centimetres or so. 

“Oh, Kunhangie,” Ten pats his head softly, looking down at him. It’s a gesture Kunhang finds both endearing and the complete opposite of the word, having a heavy dislike to being babied, especially by Ten, “you are still so young, so naïve, or maybe I’m naïve.” He laughs in between. “Do you really think that us, me and you, meeting in Washington, under a pharmacy and then meeting again, years later, in Moscow, out of all places, is a mere coincidence? Impossible!” 

“What do you suppose it is, then?” Kunhang asks, and Ten flashes him his signature blinding smile, one that never fails to take his breath away. 

“Why, fate, of course.” 

_______________________________________________ 

 

  
Washington’s air was humid that day, the sun sat in the sky like a perfect egg yolk: big, round and yellow. Kunhang fanned himself with a leaflet that got handed to him down the street, the shadow of the CVS he was sitting under didn’t help him cool down, not even one bit. He really didn’t sign up for this, he thought to himself, for the extremely hot weather, for the exhaustion that ran through his veins. He pondered for a moment, should he go to a Starbucks and get a strawberry açai or head to the metro? 

A second later, he felt something cool press against his forehead. It was a cold water bottle. He yelped a little in surprise. 

“What’s up, dude?” 

He looked up and saw a young boy. The boy looked older than Kunhang himself, perhaps by two or three years, however not older than nineteen. His face was small, oval-shaped – very pretty. However, what struck Kunhang most were his eyes, catlike eyes, and smile. 

“The sky,” Kunhang answered, rubbing at his forehead lightly, and the boy laughed. It’s a nice laugh, Kunhang thought. Not many have a pleasant laugh. 

“Of course it is,” the boy said. “Take the water bottle. You seem like you need it.” 

“Oh, thank you.” Kunhang uncapped it and downed the water nearly in one gulp. Wow, he was thirsty. 

“Tasty.” 

“Sweet!” The boy sat beside him. “I’m Ten.” 

“Hi, Ten,” Kunhang extended his hand, only after realizing that it was wet because of the water bottle, but before he could retract it, Ten already shook it gently. 

“Kunhang.” 

“Pleasure to meet you. Well, see you around, Kunhang!” Ten stood up and brushed off the dust from his joggers somewhat gracefully, and ran off with a wave. Kunhang threw the water bottle away and headed towards the metro. The sun didn’t feel as hot anymore. 

\- 

Coincidentally, Kunhang met Ten again a day later, on campus. 

“Kunhangie!” The boy called out to him as if they’re good friends and not mere strangers. 

“Hello,” Kunhang bowed. “I had no idea you study here.” 

“Hah, I do, actually! For how long are you staying?” 

“I’m here for another four weeks,” Kunhang explained. 

The campus they were in was of some academy that provided Summer courses for the English language. Kunhang didn’t like it that much, if he were, to be honest, the classes he was taking were all subpar and far too easy for him, considering he was more fluent than his teacher, and the commute from his host family’s house to school was quite inconvenient. Over the consecutive years, his opinion of the courses changed, and not for the better, although who was he to complain? He was travelling around the world, and he loved it. 

This time, he was travelling alone. No group, no group leader, no one but him. It was refreshing, incredibly so. He had a free schedule, and after classes, he was free to do whatever he wished. His host family allowed him to roam around the city until ten in the evening, and so he did just that – he visited museums, galleries, malls, all alone, however. 

It was both nice and not, he had no one to hold him back, no one to nag him to go somewhere else or anything, but memories are meant to be made with someone, aren’t they? There’s not really any point in seeing the magnificence of the Capitol dome all alone, in his opinion. 

“And for how long have you been here for?” 

“Nearly a year!” Ten laughed. 

“A year?” 

“Yes! Look at my ID strap, it’s yellow.” 

“Oh, that it is.” 

Kunhang’s own was an unpleasant shade on pink, which meant he wasn’t a student of the academy itself, but a resident. Hell, he didn’t live on campus, like most of the students, but at the end station that wasn’t even in Washington, but in Maryland. 

“Yes! After graduating from school I applied for a one year program here to learn English from scratch. What do you say? I think my English is pretty good.” 

“It is,” Kunhang confirmed, very surprised, “I would have never guessed you learnt it in only a year.” 

“I’ve been told,” Ten grabbed onto Kunhang’s biceps. Touchy. “I even spent my nineteenth birthday right here on campus. It was sweet. I do miss home, but not that much. After all, I am returning next month!” 

Nineteen. So Ten was three years older. Kunhang wouldn’t have guessed either. Not when Ten looked so youthful, so full of endless energy... 

“How old are you?” Ten suddenly asked, eyes boring to Kunhang’s, “you look young, but you sound awfully mature.” 

“I’m sixteen.” Kunhang laughed a little, almost nervously. 

“Ah, a baby!” Ten exclaimed and patted his hair as if Kunhang were a little child. Ten’s height was rather short, but objectively Kunhang’s was too, and yet Ten still had to stand on his tippy toes to pat his head. “Soft.” He said, in a much softer tone. 

Kunhang would normally be put off by such overfamiliarity, but somehow with Ten, it was more than bearable, comfortable even. It’s the way Ten was with everyone, as Kunhang observed, – friendly, open, close. Honestly speaking, Kunhang would love to be friends with him – Ten was captivating in every sense and radiated familiarity and friendliness. 

And so they became friends. In between classes and during lunch breaks, little trips to Starbucks and metro rides, a friendship bloomed. 

Kunhang became closer to Ten than his host family and roommates in the span of one single day. It’s surprising how many things can happen in just twenty-four hours. Ten took Kunhang to Chinatown, to his amusement, and they watched street artists play jazz near the metro exit. 

“Exciting! I love jazz.” Ten exclaimed as he plopped five dollars into a hat. The saxophonist thanked him and Ten enjoyed their music for a little longer, humming quietly and tapping his feet. Judging by the way Ten carries himself and swayed his body, Kunhang assumed he was some sort of dancer, and he was correct. 

“I do dance, yes,” Ten grinned cheekily. “I did ballet as a child, then street dancing and now I focus on the ballroom. Cha cha cha, samba, and all that jazz entering competitions and whatnot. However, I put it off for a while, obviously because I’m here right now, and because I’m about to major in international relations.” 

Kunhang listened to his monologue with great interest, his fascination growing even more. Ten looked so happy describing his hobbies, his goals, achievements, and aspirations; Kunhang was a little jealous – besides the piano, he didn’t have any other interests, never had done anything else. Through his childhood up until the age he was then, all he did was slave away hunched by the instrument and play, play and play until his fingers hurt until his nails broke and until he couldn’t physically play anymore. It’s like he hadn’t seen the outside world, despite having a huge window right next to his redwood Petrof, nor had experienced life at all. 

Ten changed subjects. “Do you like jazz?” 

“I’m more of a classical person.” 

“Really?” Fascination was endless within Ten. 

“Yes. I’m a pianist.” 

“Oh my god, you have to play for me!” 

“Maybe. Does the campus have a piano?” 

“It does, I think? I don’t know, actually.” 

“You don’t know?” Kunhang laughed a little and Ten playfully hit his shoulder. It was like a kitten’s gentle touch. A cat acting like a tiger. Didn’t hurt at all. “You’ve lived there for a year.” 

“That’s true, but it’s not every day I encounter cute boys who know how to play an instrument.” Kunhang was the one who hit Ten’s shoulder then, only with actual force. Ten stumbled on the sidewalk with giggles and then asked, “Are you hungry?” 

They ate at a noodle place, only Ten ordered not noodles, but rather a whole duck. “I’m a picky eater,” he had said. And in a blink of an eye, it was already nine in the evening. The street lights have long been turned on, even though the sun was still prancing over the horizon. The fading sun rays touched the tips of the pagoda roofs, turning them golden and crimson; the breeze was warm despite the lateness of the evening – honestly, Kunhang thought, it felt like home. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” 

Ten’s voice only added to the enchantment, soft and mellow, like the breeze, rich and smooth, like the ever-changing sky. 

“It surely is.” 

Kunhang’s walk back home felt serene for once, under the pitch black sky and the wind that wrapped around him like a blanket, he walked with Debussy playing in his mind. From Glenmont, he walked past a highway and turned left onto Weller road and after a few turns, he was right in front of the house. He fished out the green labelled keys from his backpack and slowly opened the door – oh how difficult it was to open it! – and came face to face with natural silence. 

\- 

“Who’s your new friend?” Yangyang asked on the next day before they were about to leave for afternoon classes. 

“Are you talking to me?” 

“Duh,” he deadpanned, “who else?” 

Yangyang was Kunhang’s roommate from Germany. They roomed in the same room, however, he had two more roommates – Mark from Canada and Yukhei from Hong Kong. Kunhang didn’t speak much with those two, mainly because they didn’t have any common interests and because Kunhang was awkward as hell. Their rooms were situated across each other, and the four of them had to share one tiny bathroom, so polite exchanges were made every day, but they never went further than that. 

Yangyang was the youngest out of them, and surprisingly he and Kunhang went along well. He was loud and boisterous, the complete opposite of Kunhang’s reserved personality, however, Yangyang’s friendliness made Kunhang open up like a book, and boom, they were already acquaintances-slash-friends. 

“Ah, you’re right. His name is Ten.” 

“Ten? Like the number?” Yangyang almost cackled. Kunhang wanted to whack him. Immature fifteen-year-olds! 

“Yes, like the number, why?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just, you look so smitten all the time around him. I would find it cute if not for your constant heart eyes, like tone it down a little!” 

Maybe it’s the absolutely ruthless sun (why was it already over thirty degrees Celsius at seven in the morning?) or maybe it was Yangyang’s remark, but Kunhang reddened. He blamed it on the weather. 

“I do not have hearts in my eyes. He’s just very admirable. Like a brother figure.” 

“Oh, I see. Isn’t he older than you?” 

“Yeah, by three years.” 

“Three?! Dude, that’s a lot. Wow, he’s old.” 

Kunhang did whack him at that time. “Don’t be rude.” 

 

______________________________________ 

 

Kunhang unpacks his belongings in his new apartment. He’s done it many times, when he had travelled to the states during summers, only now he’s not in America, but in Moscow, and he’s not staying in a hotel or a residence, but in his own little apartment. 

He’s nineteen now. The age Ten was when they first met. After finishing school he enrolled in Gnesinykh’s conservatoire in Moscow to pursue a career in piano professionally, as his grandma has always wanted. 

He didn’t have a problem with moving so far away, he’s always been on the move after all; his mom waved him off at the airport with tears streaming down her ageing face. She sobbed into his grandma’s shoulder, who looked stoic as always but that day she was wearing a smile that Kunhang would describe as proud. 

“My grandson,” she said, touching Kunhang’s cheek with her old hand, “you’re all grown up now. Be a good child and make your nana proud. Remember, the piano is your friend.” 

“Yes, grandma.” 

“Go off now,” She patted him three times. Three was her lucky number. “Call us whenever you can. Be happy.” 

Kunhang smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Her words sounded like some sort of goodbye, and he hated goodbyes more than anything. On the plane he thought about happiness – how was he supposed to be happy when the piano makes him feel so trapped? Before doing off he thought that the happiest moments in his life were during Washington’s pretty sunsets and warm nights. 

Kunhang doesn’t speak Russian very well, only having learnt Cyrillic and the basic pronunciation a month prior to his departure, and his instructor doesn’t speak English or Mandarin, for that matter, at all. But music is a universal language, yes, because he definitely does understand all the things he’s playing wrong by the way his instructor shouts at him louder than his fortissimo. 

Kunhang often wonders how Ten is doing, he surely must have graduated from international relations by now. They haven’t talked in about a year; and as much as memories of them in Washington warm Kunhang’s heart, they also pain him deeply. 

It’s weird how even strongest bonds fall apart. But it’s natural, Kunhang thinks, for people to grow apart. He and Ten were initially worlds apart – by age, occupation, everything. Only by some miracle did their worlds collide that summer afternoon at Takoma, even is it was for a brief moment, it felt as if Ten took a piece of Kunhang away when their worlds, and them themselves, parted for good. 

It was foolish of Kunhang to think that they could be anything more than friends, but as his grandma has always said, Kunhang is a fool. He laughs to himself and continues unpacking. He comes across a postcard he bought in New York, and suddenly his mind is filled with an unnatural, comforting warmth, the NYC warm breeze and a charming smile he could never forget. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

  
The next week flew by rather slowly. It was nearing July, which meant the weather was going to increase by a couple of Celsius, and an additional trip to New York City before the Fourth. 

“Are you going?” Kunhang asked Ten, who had his head on Kunhang’s lap in a park. They were sitting under a sakura tree after classes had finished. These were the perks of morning classes – you had the whole day free afterwards. 

“Dunno,” Ten replied lazily, “How much is it?” 

“Like one-hundred fifty bucks.” 

“Ouch.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“Am I even allowed to go?” 

“Why not?” 

“Not sure. But I’ll think about it; I’ve never had the privilege of seeing the Big Apple with my own two eyes, and besides, with you, it’s ought to be fun, right?” 

“Mmhm.” Kunhang smiled softly. Ten’s face looked so peaceful under the shadow of the leaves, even though sunlight still shone past them, right into Ten’s honey eyes. Captivating, Kunhang would describe it. Beautiful, even. Yeah, Ten was beautiful. Kunhang wasn’t blind – Ten was an impossibly attractive young man and he could never deny that, ever since they first had met at the CVS near campus grounds. Has it really been only two weeks? It felt like months. 

\- 

Two days later they were seated on the bus to New York, anticipating the five-hour ride. Ten sat nearby the window per his request, half asleep and complaining. 

“It’s so early! This is a crime!” 

“It’s only nine,” Kunhang commented. “At least you woke up and just went downstairs to the bus – I had a forty-minute commute.” 

“Oh you poor, poor, boy.” Ten sighed, putting his head on Kunhang’s shoulder while patting his arm in what appeared to be mock sympathy, only it was as genuine as it could be. 

“Can I stay like that?” He then asked. Kunhang nodded. “Sure.” Ten’s hair tickled his cheeks but he didn’t mind. The air conditioning in the bus was at a rather high level, and if not for Ten’s excessive warmth, Kunhang would’ve turned into a popsicle. 

Instead of a five-hour ride, it turned out to be an almost seven one, because of the traffic somewhere in Baltimore and Philadelphia. Kunhang finished reading ‘Farewell to Arms’ and even began ‘Old man and the sea’, then plugged in his headphones, turned up Tchaikovsky’s whole repertoire and managed to doze off, Ten still asleep on his shoulder. 

 

“Hey, wake up.” 

A poke on his cheek. 

“We’re here. Come on, get up.” 

Another poke. Then Kunhang felt two hands squish his cheeks hard, and he instantly woke up. “I’m up, I’m up!” 

Ten’s smile was ever so radiant as if he jumped right out of a Colgate commercial. Perfect white teeth and all. Kunhang was kind of envious, kind of in awe. 

 

New York was just as Kunhang remembered it – a whole ant colony of people in Times Square, humidity, hot dog parlours and ice cream mini trucks, so much rubbish but also so much thrill and excitement. Skyscrapers loomed over them like concrete vines in a city jungle, and it was equally as scary as it was epic. 

Ten was absolutely ecstatic, to say the least. Despite the underwhelming schedule they were practically scammed for, he held his head high and a smile never left his face. Two hours into walking around the city Kunhang was a tired, whining mess, and Ten both comforted him and teased him, saying soft words Kunhang couldn’t even process because of his foul mood. 

“Well, look at the bright side of things! We’re in New York City, living like locals and not like tourists, and walking is good for you! You have to keep fit. Seriously, though, Kunhangie, cut it down with the fast food.” 

“You sound like my mom.” Kunhang groaned. The idea of walking right over to downtown Brooklyn didn’t sound as appealing anymore, not in his uncomfortable shoes and frying Sun, at least. 

“Think of me as your big bro.” Ten corrected. “I have a younger sister, so I have plenty of experience with young lads like you. Do you have any siblings?” 

“I have a half brother. Though we don’t talk about him.” 

“Oh,” Ten’s smile subsided greatly, “I’m sorry. Have I brought up a sore spot?” 

“No, don’t worry about it. It’s just I really don’t have anything to say about him. We’re connected biologically, but not physically, not emotionally. Like strangers, only tied by blood. Something like that?” 

“I can empathise,” Ten said. The Brooklyn bridge was magnificent indeed, albeit very crowded. Ten bought sliced watermelons for five dollars and shared them with Kunhang. “I can be your older brother if you want.” 

Kunhang laughed. “No thanks. It would seem another way around.” He gestured at their height difference. 

_“Rude!”_

He doesn’t know why, but the thought of Ten acting like an older brother didn’t sit well in his stomach. He found the idea of him being a friend much more favourable. No mater for big Kunhang’s admiration for Ten was, he never saw him as a brother, but as something more. 

Kunhang quickly shook those thoughts away. 

After he took hundreds of shots of Ten posing over the city landscape, all smiles and laughter, their group leader signalled them that they must leave for the Statue of Liberty. 

They walked south to Battery Park, where they sat on a ferry headed to Staten Island. 

“When I was told we’re going to see the Statue of Liberty, this isn’t what I quite imagined.” Kunhang expressed his disapproval. Ten couldn’t contain his giggles, “Your complaining is so cute. Turn your frown upside down! The statue is right there, after all. Here, let me take a picture of you.” 

Kunhang’s pictures turned out with him having with a grimace plastered over his face along with his cheeks aflame. 

 

\- 

“I am so tired.” 

Several hours later they were situated in their hotel room. Turns out, to go on top of the Rock you had to pay beforehand, but Kunhang didn’t know and neither did Ten, so they wandered around Times Square until nine and ate dinner in an overly crowded McDonald’s while everyone was taking panoramic pictures hundreds of meters above them. Kunhang was so jealous. 

“It’s okay. Kunhangie,” Ten had comforted, again, “Last year you were on the Empire State Building, right? The view is better there.” 

“Yeah,” Kunhang replied, “but you haven’t been in neither places. That’s what I’m most upset about. I don’t want this unorganised tour trip to make a poor impression on the city. New York is wonderful.” 

“Don’t worry, Kunhangie, I’m not upset at all. I enjoy spending time with you the most. Let’s go to our rooms, okay?” 

To say that their hotel was any sort of posh would be a tremendous lie – the rooms were tacky and looked overly ominous as if they were right from American Horror Story. Their room had four beds, two of which were unoccupied for that time being. 

“I’m tired too.” Ten sighed. “What do you say we go to sleep?” 

“Sure, let’s do that.” 

Kunhang let Ten use the shower first. The latter’s singing could be heard even on the other side of the bedroom, and Kunhang thought he had a wonderful voice. After he himself washed away the daylight’s sweat, he plopped right onto the bed. It creaked under his weight. 

“Sleepy?” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Come here.” 

“Huh?” 

“Come on.” Ten tapped the space next to him, “It’s cold here and you’re warm.” 

“But our roommates are going to come back any second thought.” 

“I don’t care about that.” Ten replied, gaze certain. Kunhang always paid attention to his big wide-eyed, that held so many emotions in them, much more than words could convey. 

Kunhang chuckled, “Okay.” The idea of falling asleep beside each other was tempting, so Kunhang gave in to his temptations, and they did just that. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

  
One note. Another. An arpeggio. A D7 chord. Wrong, all of it sounds wrong. He’s played the piece millions of times – so many, the notes are engraved on the back of his eyelids, so many, he can play any fragment of the Nocturne in his sleep, so why does it sound so off? 

Frustrated, Kunhang wants to hit slam his hands on keys, but refrains. The poor instrument didn’t do anything wrong. Only he did. Messed up, again. There a nagging voice of his piano instructor at the back of his mind, telling him that he’s a worse player than her second-grade students, little six-year-olds, and Kunhang hates being compared so much, his blood boils. 

He hates this. For a second, he hates the piano, but that feeling dies as quickly as it was born. He could never hate the instrument, no matter how hard he tries. The piano is his greatest strength and well as it is his biggest weakness, but most of all it’s innocent. 

He puts the lid down. He can’t play the chords correctly in this agitated state, so he leaves it for tomorrow. His piano teacher can shout at him all he wanted, he thinks. 

To clear off his mind, he goes outside for an evening stroll. It’s September, and surprisingly, the weather is quite warm. He only puts on a light coat and nothing more. He rides the metro until he reaches station Park Kulruty, and only after walking towards the Naberezhnaya does he realize he has forgotten his earphones in another coat. 

Moscow is better than he thought it’d be. Kunhang thinks back to when his mom broke the news to him about moving here. He should’ve protested, asked for reasoning, but he didn’t, simply because he couldn’t bring himself to care. Macau was suffocating him, in every literal sense, and he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, so he seized the opportunity, even if that opportunity was miles and miles away only God knows where. 

Kunhang walks back and forth the promenade, the rustling of leaves and occasional cars and boats passing by being the only sounds around him. The silence is almost deafening, but it’s also comforting in a sense. It makes him think about many things, and about nothing at all. 

Ten pops in his mind. Ten always loved hearing him play. Kunhang actually loved playing for him too, stage fright be damned. Ten’s earnest eyes and beaming smile when Kunhang recited Bach and Grieg were worth more than any standing ovation. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

“Play for me.” Ten asked. No, it wasn’t a plea, it was more of a command. Kunhang fiddled with the end of his sweater. It was cold inside the campus, extremely so, so a hoodie was a go-to. Ten commented that he looked like an ‘e-boy’ in that attire, with his parted black hair and accessories, to which Kunhang only shook his head in amusement with his eyebrows raised. 

“I don’t have a say in this, do I?” 

“No. You’re leaving in a week. I’m leaving next month too. I want to hear you play before we, uh, do that. Please, Kunhangie.” 

“Okay,” Kunhang gave in. He didn’t bother telling Ten about his horrible stage fright, because he felt that no matter how many mistakes he was going to make. Ten wouldn’t either notice or judge him. “What do you want me to play?” 

“Can you play Mozart? I’ve always liked Mozart. His little compositions contain so much happiness in them, they never fail to uplift even the lowest of my moods.” 

“Of course I can.” 

Kunhang lied, he was not that familiar with Mozart, however, he did recite Fantasia in D minor and Ten was absolutely delighted. While listening to Kunhang play he had his eyes closed, his face was resting on his hand as he gently swayed to the music. 

Kunhang was nervous, very nervous. His blood ran cold and his hands were trembling slightly, and he felt sweat drip down his neck. For a second he couldn’t hear the notes at all – all of the sounds in his eardrums got knocked out entirely – his vision blurred and he couldn’t see the keys, the blacks with the whites morphed into an ugly grey, and _god_ , it made him nauseous. But on the outside, he looked calm and collected like he always did, and to his own surprise he finished off the Fantasia in one piece. 

Ten showered him with endless rounds of applauses, all of which Kunhang think he didn’t deserve to get. He grabbed Kunhang’s shaking hand. Kunhang didn’t realise he was shaking so much. 

“Shh.” Ten whispered, “It’s okay. You did very well. Don’t worry anymore.” 

Kunhang calmed down shortly after that. Ten sat next to him on the piano stool and stroked his back, and then his hair, and then pressed him close. 

“You’re the best pianist I’ve had the pleasure to listen to.” 

“You really have to listen to more pianists, then.” Kunhang laughed coldly. The shock was still wearing off. 

Ten frowned. “Don’t downplay yourself like that, Kunhangie, you’re extremely talented! And I don’t mean talent as in just being able to play perfectly right off the bat, but talent as in years of hard work, years of blood, sweat, and tears spent into polishing your craft, that gave you such an outstanding result for your efforts. Believe me, you are very very good. More than that. I don’t think you realize how good you are yourself. I may speak a lot, but I never lie, so believe me, okay?” 

“Wow,” Kunhang was at a loss for words, “thank you.” 

 

______________________________________ 

 

Sometimes, when he’s so demotivated, Kunhang remembers what Ten had said to him that cool July morning, and he endures the difficulties for a little longer. His chest no longer feels tight, and on the contrary, he feels rather light and giddy. Funny how even after three years Ten still has that effect on him. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

On the fourth of July, Ten invited Kunhang to watch the fireworks with him at National Mall. He asked Kunhang whether he was free ever so casually, and Kunhang sighed out a breath of relief because he was too anxious to ask Ten out himself. 

“I’m going out to see the fireworks!” Kunhang exclaimed to his host family and roommates. His host mother suggested dropping him off right by Glenmont so that he wouldn’t lose any unnecessary time, after all, it was already quite late; the sky was almost pitch black, with sparse stars scattered around it like uncaring paint blotches, and the fireworks were about to start any moment. 

At the door, Rosie, Kunhang’s five-year-old host sister tugged on her mom’s long dress. 

“Mommy, where is Kunhang going?” 

“Our Kunhang has gotten himself a date,” she threw a wink in his direction, “so I’m helping him get there as fast as he can, so his date won’t wait for long. Isn’t that romantic, sweetie?” 

Kunhang reddened. The fact that it could be a date never crossed his mind, and he was spluttering too much to correct his host mom. She patted her daughter’s head and opened the door. 

“What’s a date?” Rosie asked after Kunhang had already left. Yangyang only cackled. 

\- 

Kunhang emerged from Smithsonian station at quarter past nine and spent a handful of minutes searching for Ten in the midst of the crowd. He felt on edge, but in a good kind of way, a way that made all of his insides tingle with excitement and anticipation. 

“Kunhangie!” Ten was standing by the Smithsonian National Museum, dressed in his usual t-shirt and joggers, but to Kunhang he looked so irresistibly pretty for some reason, a reason didn’t even know of. Ten was smiling ( it felt like he smiled all the time, Kunhang rarely saw him frown), and waving with all of his energy. Their surroundings were dimly lit, there was barely any light except for those provided by street lamps that were on the opposite sides of the museum, however, Ten’s whole presence was brighter than any light. 

“You made it!” Ten dived into a hug. He smelt like green tea and honey, like freshness and summer. Kunhang suddenly started loving summers a lot. “I’m so glad!” 

Kunhang freed himself of the embrace first, “I did. Shall we go? The fireworks are about to start at any moment.” 

“Let’s hurry. They’re gonna blast them by the Washington Monument and by the Capitol. Where do you prefer to go?.” 

“The monument,” Kunhang replied after a moment – the monument had much more free space, and it was closer to them, too. It was a perfect spot to watch the sky explode in a multitude of colours, to see the black canvas turn colourful. 

The crowd moved forward like a herd of elephants – it was packed and loud, and at some point, Kunhang found that his hand was interlocked with Ten’s. He doesn’t know who initiated the contact first, was Ten or him, or whether did their hands meet somewhere in the middle, but he didn’t really care about that. 

“So that neither of us gets separated,” was what Ten had said. It was dark, but Kunhang didn’t miss the subtle blush on Ten’s cheeks. 

He didn’t know exactly when he craved to know how Ten’s delicate hand would feel around his own if his hand was cold or warm, soft or rough around the edges, but now, when his daydreams turned into reality, it was exciting – it was exhilarating. His heart exploded just like the fireworks right above them. 

It was pretty – the fireworks. Kunhang had seen many of these explosions in his rather short life, but that year’s ones were the most memorable. Not because of the fireworks themselves, no, the ones in a hotel in Turkey were far more impressive, but because he was watching them with Ten, standing side by side, hand in hand, heartbeats aligned. 

“Can this be considered a date?” Kunhang couldn’t help himself and ask. The curiosity got the best of him. 

Ten only shrugged and giggled. It wasn’t a no. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

Kunhang’s little apartment has a solid view of Moscow state university, on vivid sunrises, and on fireworks. He doesn’t live far from the metro, but quite far from his college. In the span of a few months, he had picked up Russian at a fast pace and could converse in it pretty well, especially thanks to his classmates and new friends. It reminded him of how Ten asked him to teach him Mandarin, even though Kunhang’s flight was in two days. Ten was persistent, and Kunhang had given him a handwritten little diary with the most essential phrases. 

(Ten’s smile was worth definitely the hours Kunhang put into the piece of paper.) 

In return, Ten taught him slow waltz. On the school’s goodbye party a modest ball was hosted, and of course, like in any teenage rom-com, slow music was played. And like in any rom-com, Ten, dressed in a suit and tie (why did he even bring those with him?), extended his hand for Kunhang to take, and led him to the dance floor. He put his arm on Kunhang’s shoulder and Kunhang put his own on Ten’s waist. 

“Just follow my lead,” Ten said, quietly, and despite the loud music, Kunhang heard him loud and clear. 

Kunhang couldn’t dance to save his life, and stepping on Ten’s feet was his first and greatest fear at that moment. Being warped in his thoughts he didn’t notice how Ten’s body was closer to his, how Ten was resting his head on Kunhang’s shoulder, how beautiful he looked that day under blaring blue and purple lights. 

Too mesmerised, Kunhang accidentally stepped on Ten’s feet. 

“Ow.” Ten had expressed, but he was smiling, laughing, he was glowing, he was everything all at once. 

Kunhang’s heart had raced, his heartbeat was loud, much louder than the music from the speakers, louder than people talking by the food tables – it was deafening. Ten took his breath away, both figuratively and literally, and that’s when he has known he was too far gone. 

Kunhang vaguely remembers how light Ten’s hand rested on his shoulder, how electrifying his touch was, how warm his body was close to his, how swift his dancing was. He clearly, though, remembers the way Ten had looked at him, full of emotion and fondness, his smile, god, how Kunhang adores his smile. In the middle of that dance floor, on a July evening with Ten practically in his arms, Kunhang felt like the happiest sixteen-year-old alive. 

Kunhang desperately wants to reset his mind. He should be focusing on the present, the future, and not dwell on the past, yet he does just that, every time his thoughts wander elsewhere. He thinks of a possibility, an alternate reality where he and Ten could have met under different circumstances, in a different time period, in a different country. But alas, things never work out in one’s favour, and Kunhang realizes and accepts that unwillingly. His music theory exam awaits. 

\- 

Kunhang is surrounded by remarkable people – those who are well educated, well mannered, ambitious and passionate about what they do. His classmates are flawless pianists and composers, he has multiple friends from the vocal department that have voices of angels themselves; he frequently visits the orchestra during their practice sessions, and Kunhang feels alive surrounded by such people and such a comfortable atmosphere, where everyone is filled with music down to their core. It’s a beautiful feeling or pure happiness that makes your face break out into a smile, and Kunhang cherishes that feeling for as long as he can. 

There are times when even the most beautiful of things can turn ugly, and Kunhang goes through periods like that when he’s at his lowest moments filled with helplessness and frustration. The fact that his classmates are so damn talented and good and so in love with music brews an ugly feeling in his stomach, one of pure envy, as he is not that good, he cannot compare to them, nor to their love and passion. It makes him feel like he’s not enough, that he doesn’t belong in their circle, but he knows how to repress those feelings before they ever have the chance to evolve into something uglier. He learns how to snap out of it and re-evaluate his self-worth, and with that, he drives himself out a corner he drove himself into in the first place. 

Most of his days are spent by the instrument, either the one in his classroom or in his apartment. Kunhang loves how clear the classroom’s Steinway & Sons sounds, but he really does prefer his own old Petrof. With great difficulty, it flew to Russia with him, as ridiculous as it sounds. It’s an instrument Kunhang can call his, he has all power over it, knows to control it completely, how to press each note for them to sound either gentle or mad. Only while playing at home can he fully relax and play with his eyes closed and mind somewhere else. 

In the middle of playing through Haydn’s Sonatina Kunhang hears his phone ring. Not many people call him, especially at this late hour. Briefly, he hopes for it to be Ten, for whatever reason, however, his surprise doesn’t subside when he sees that it’s his mother. 

She notifies him of her visit in less than a week’s time, and Kunhang is both nervous and excited. He hasn’t seen her in so long. 

On the day of her arrival, he takes the aeroexpress to Sheremetyevo airport, and the thirty-minute ride in the train makes him think about many things. Mostly about how he hasn’t texted him, family, much recently, simply because he forgets, as lame and stupid that excuse is. He makes a mental note to text his mother daily and call his grandmother at least every week. 

Kunhang hugs his mother as tightly as he can. He doesn’t like hugs, but she adores them, so he indulges her in that for that one time. They take a taxi back to his apartment, and not even five minutes after his mom stepped foot into his residence does he receive a lecture about how untidy the place is. 

He knows his mom reprimands him out of concern and love, so he doesn’t take it to heart, and cooks soup and ravioli for dinner. It’s May, and days are getting longer and longer, and Kunhang both loves it and misses the darkness. His mom talks (read: complains) about her work and her mannerless coworkers, his grandmother and their distant relatives, town gossip and, of course, asks about Ten. 

“How is Ten doing?” 

Kunhang smiled weakly. “I don’t know. We haven’t talked in a long time.” 

And as usual, his mother looks shocked by the news. 

“You haven’t? But you were so close!” 

“Keyword: were. Three years ago.” Kunhang corrects. He feels annoyed whenever his mom brings Ten up. He’s upset that they’ve drifted apart, but he doesn’t do anything either. Mostly in fear of appearing annoying and clingy, partially because of his weird mentality that if Ten doesn’t message him, it means that Ten doesn’t wish to speak to him. He knows he’s overthinking, and that he’s being absurd, but oh well. 

“You should text him,” his mom says as if she had nested herself in his mind. Kunhang regards her ability to guess what the other is speaking of as a superpower. 

“I don’t know…” Kunhang mumbles, poking his ravioli with the end of the fork. He doesn’t remember when he started using forks and knives much more often than chopsticks. 

“What are you scared of?” 

“A lot, mom.” 

“Do you have feelings for that boy?” 

The words pierce through Kunhang’s heart like an arrow coated with the deadliest of poisons. They are like a wake-up call. Kunhang splutters. Does he? It’s been over three years, and a year without any contact… and yet, yeah. He thinks he does. Ever since they danced on the ball, watched the fireworks together, went to another state, crossed paths on campus, texted or called – all of the times his stomach twisted – it was not in pain but in giddiness, in a dumb way your body would react when you see your crush. 

Oh. 

He blushes. 

His mom giggles at his reaction and leans over the table to pinch his cheeks. “Awwww, Kunhangie,” She coos, “aren’t you adorable.” 

Kunhang felt kind of embarrassed; harbouring a crush on an older person with whom they spent only a little time together years ago – it sounded funny even to himself, and yet can he be blamed? He had never felt the way with anyone like he did when he was with Ten, and he thinks he never will. 

“Oh, stop, mom,” Kunhang swats her hand away and tends to his aching cheek. He searches for any signs of negative emotions on his mother’s face, but on the contrary, she looks quite happy, with her eyes crinkling with many wrinkles, and for that Kunhang is relieved. 

“What’s stopping you from messaging him? What are you worried about, son?” 

Kunhang chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“Well, our age…” 

“Your age gap? Please,” she waves her hand, “three years is practically nothing. Your father and I had a much bigger age difference.” 

“But he’s an adult!” 

“Kunhangie, you’re an adult too.” She smiles. “You’re all grown up, oh my, how fast they grow up!” She wails. 

That doesn’t ease Kunhang much; the age difference to him is a constant reminder that they’re always going to be on different pages – Ten always ahead, Kunhang always behind. It’s been unnerving him ever since he found out Ten’s age, and the thought of him being too _young_ for Ten, too immature, had plagued him ever since. Although, Ten has never paid attention to his age, never made derogative comments about Kunhang being younger than him, never regarded Kunhang as a little child. And yet, the gap is still there, and it’s big, it’s humongous to Kunhang, who is afraid. He’s just afraid. 

“Don’t be scared, son,” his mother speaks again as if reading his mind. Her voice is gentle, overly soft, it’s the voice she uses when she’d comforted Kunhang when he hurt his ankle when he was seven when he lost his first competition, had his first heartbreak. “Things will be okay, I know they will.” She takes his hand in her small one and holds him close. 

Kunhang lets her hug him even though he’s uncomfortable and suffocating, but he doesn’t try to wriggle free. The hug is so warm and so comforting, it exudes tenderness and love – only mothers can hug like that. Kunhang buries his face into his mother’s neck as his own hands circle around her fragile frame. She doesn’t let him go, not until his sparse tears have dried out. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

The school’s ball was an anticipated event. Everything was set up for the event – food, balloons, LED lights, even a DJ was invited. 

Kunhang, however, wasn’t enthusiastic about it at all. Yangyang insisted that all the four of them went, since it was their last full evening in the states, and only because of that Kunhang obliged. That, and also because Ten asked for him to come. 

The event was nothing special, per se, but Ten, Ten – wow, he made Kunhang’s night. They danced slowly and closely, too afraid to let each other go. The music was soft and tender, just like the moment of the two of them shared in the middle of the dance floor. It was a moment of a silent promise: to not lose contact and keep in touch. 

Kunhang’s hand was resting on Ten’s waist ever so lightly, and he held Ten so carefully, like the finest porcelain, afraid that the latter could break any second if treated carelessly. Ten smiled his way throughout the whole evening that bled into the night, he looked at Kunhang and only at Kunhang, and Kunhang’s eyes were only on him. 

Kunhang swore time had slowed down, and everyone disappeared in a flash – it was just him and Ten, and their unspoken, bubbling feelings for each other. It was like a fairytale. 

“What a lovely night,” Ten mused, ears awfully close to Kunhang’s ear. 

“It certainly is.” Kunhang gulped; he was awfully self-conscious at that moment. Did he look okay? Was his hair neatly styled? He hoped he wasn’t sweating too much. 

Ten then rested his head on Kunhang’s shoulder, and Kunhang felt lost – lost like in that Chet Baker song Ten told him about – lost in his eyes, embrace everything. 

He doesn’t know how it happened, but a second later, somehow, they were so close Kunhang could make out all the little stars hidden in Ten’s eyes, could feel his warmth… His eyes traced an imaginary line over Ten’s features and stopped somewhere at Ten’s lips. The latter didn’t let that go unnoticed, he almost smirked and moved closer. Kunhang felt a sudden wave of boldness wash over him, and he gripped Ten’s waist and pulled him closer. But Ten pressed a finger to Kunhang’s lips and gave him a smile. “I thank you for this dance.” He said, amusedly, and time resumed. 

\- 

Goodbyes are inevitable, and Kunhang’s and Ten’s parting was inevitable too. 

“I’m gonna miss you so much.” 

Ten hugged him real tight, wished him good luck and promised that they would stay in touch. 

And they did – for the first year or so. Kunhang’s phone buzzed with messages nearly every single day, he and Ten talked non stop from dusk until dawn. It didn’t quite compare to the real deal, but it was enough. 

Ten always asked for Kunhang to play for him. At first, Kunhang refused, made excuses, that the connection was really bad, but Ten had none of it. 

_” How are you going to overcome your stage fright if you don’t play? How will people know of your talent if you keep it hidden, locked in a dark room? You should play as much as you can, Kunhangie. In the meantime, practice on me.”_

It was hard, but somewhere at the back of his mind Kunhang found it enjoyable. Having an audience was nice. Receiving praise was nice. Ten’s smile was the nicest out of all of that, however. 

When Ten got accepted into a university in Seoul, things shifted, but only slightly. Ten had become much busier, and he barely picked up his phone. Kunhang understood that and he did not mind that one bit, on the contrary, he was swarmed with homework too. He spent most of his time preparing for his recital after school, only checking his phone somewhere in between breaks. 

He preferred talking with Ten at nighttime when the city was asleep and the moon was hanging high up in the sky. When he could bask in the melancholy of the night and finally relax after a stressful day. Talking to Ten was like a breath of fresh air, like sunlight, warmth, everything Kunhang could ever ask for. 

Ten and he skyped pretty often. Kunhang met his family – sister, mother and father, and Ten made small talk with his mother too. 

On Kunhang’s seventeenth birthday he received a handwritten letter from Ten, albums of his favourite bands, and a whole bouquet of flowers. Kunhang hated his birthdays less from that day on. As he blew the candles on his sad-looking cake, he wished for him and Ten to meet sometime again. 

\- 

One of the only things Kunhang is proud of is how he overcame his stage fright. It took him fifteen years and a lot of tears, but now it’s all in the past. Back then, he could barely play knowing someone could possibly hear him, but now, he holds concerts in his friends’ dorms, performs in every recital and even works part-time as an accompanist. 

(He thanks Ten for that. Ten, who had pushed him to play in front of him, Ten, who had given him the confidence to do so.) 

He’s more open, freer, and it shows – he’s always out of his comfort zone, surrounded by friends, in classes or at parties, sometimes he doesn’t even recognise himself! He thinks Ten wouldn’t recognise him either, be that good or bad. Kunhang wants Ten to recognise him, he wants Ten to see how he matured, grew up, how maybe, maybe now they’re on the same wavelength and not worlds apart. 

He wants to _see_ him, how he grew a few inches taller, how his voice got deeper, how now he’s an adult, and not a kid anymore. But that doesn’t happen. 

\- 

Gradually, Ten slipped away. 

They texted less often, practically never called, and just like that, their bond broke. It was natural; there was no falling out, no fight – nothing. And somehow that hurt even more. Kunhang spent many nights wondering where did they, _he_ , go wrong, for them to part ways like that, so coldly, like strangers. 

However, nothing went wrong – it was only natural to lose contact sooner or later. Ten still texted him, albeit rarely, and Kunhang answered, only not as eagerly, and soon, they stopped talking overall. Months passed, and it’s like they never knew each other in the first place. It hurts only a little bit. Kunhang sat on his piano and played, played until he couldn’t feel anymore – not his fingers, not his feelings until he had projected all of his hurt onto the instrument until he drowned in the music he himself created. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

Years go by, and all the memories they once shared, their closeness, little moments together, touches – all of it blurred into something unrecognisable, like a paintbrush smears paint over a wooden palette, the once vibrant colours becoming a dull grey — and it’s rather funny; he thought he would remember and cherish those memories forever, given his perfect memory and longing heart, but despite the longing, even at the loneliest hours of the night, he can’t remember anymore. Ten’s smile, his deepest eyes, the way Ten held him when they danced, the scent of green tea and honey Ten was always surrounded by, his soft, high-pitched voice, his enthusiasm, passion, love, everything – twenty-one-year-old Kunhang was starting to forget. When was the last time he had heard Ten’s voice? He doesn’t remember... The voice he once loved so much, the sweet, soft-sounding, delicate voice, that he could listen to for hours on end, the voice that brought him peace and comfort, most importantly warmth, had turned into something cold and unfamiliar. No, no matter how much Kunhang would replay Ten’s voice in his head, it could never live up to the real thing, especially when what Kunhang replayed in his mind wasn’t Ten’s voice itself, but rather a projection of it, a fragment of a memory that was slipping away. And frankly, Kunhang felt okay with that. The past stays in the past, and he must move forward. Life goes on, they say, and so Kunhang obeys the laws of life ( Though sometimes he feels rooted in place, in time, in the past. Back with Ten, in Washington five warm summers ago, with his enchanting smile and loving eyes. ) 

Life goes on, and it’s not long before Ten becomes only but a distant memory, a memory bleak and fading, but one that could not be forgotten entirely. Even if they were not as close as Kunhang unknowingly wanted them to be, Ten, albeit only a stranger-turned-friend, somehow weaved into his heart more than any close friend of Kunhang’s did. Maybe it was infatuation, maybe fascination, no, it was both, and it was every feeling in between. It was simple, yet oh so complicated. 

(Although Kunhang wishes he kissed Ten that day, on the dance floor, more often than not, and had made his feelings clear, but no, fear and fright took over him that night, and he cowered out, and Ten’s finger on his lips was like a nail on the coffin – a sign that they must not go past friendship – or was he just assuming things? ) 

Kunhang is now in his last year in the Conservatoire. He is respected by his underclassmen and teachers, even his own instructor told him he’s a polished diamond. More importantly, his grandmother, the woman who started it all, has expressed she’s proud. And Kunhang feels like he fulfilled all of his duties: grow up, be independent, graduate from college, overcome stage fright, hold your own concert, make nana proud – he ticked check off of each and every box. However, he feels _so_ so hollow inside. Like he has nothing to strive for, now that he’s achieved most of other’s wishes for him, but not his own single wish. 

Life is disgustingly unfair, and on his twenty-second birthday, Kunhang receives a handwritten letter and a bouquet of flowers. He laughs; Ten won’t let himself be forgotten, he won’t let Kunhang be free. Kunhang puts the flowers down. He needs to take a walk. 

The Moscow sky is exceptionally starless this November night. 

He walks from Nikolskaya, past the Red Square and St. Basel’s church, over to the promenade. It’s dark outside, and it’s unpleasantly cold – the wind bites at his cheeks and hands, and to Kunhang’s dismay he’s both gloveless and without a scarf. His boots clack against the rough pavement, and that this late hour, he’s alone in the night. It’s nice, pleasantly nice, it clears his head and calms him down. There’s a certain level of comfort in being alone, alone with yourself and your thoughts, and Kunhang spends time reflecting on the last overwhelming yet underwhelming six years of his life. Kunhang feels like he’s accomplished a lot, he feels as if he’d wasted them, he feels like he achieved so much and yet nothing at all. 

 

Briefly, Kunhang thinks about Ten – his whereabouts, his occupation, his life. He wonders whether Ten thinks about him too. 

_“No, he surely must’ve forgotten a person like me.”_ Kunhang convinces himself. He may be confident in his skills, now, but never in himself. Even years later self-deprecation was his worst habit, and old habits die hard. In fact, they never die. 

Kunhang finds another lone soul not far from him, their gaze directed somewhere distant and unclear like they’re looking past the Red Square, past reality. It’s weird; the figure of the person is awfully familiar. The narrow shoulders, perfect posture, side profile – everything reminds Kunhang of one certain person – but he pays it no mind. He hides his freezing arms in the pockets of his coat and walks past. 

“Kunhang.” 

He stops. 

Ten. 

Kunhang turns around. It’s Ten, alive and well, and _mature_. He’s no longer the young carefree nineteen-year old Kunhang remembers him as he’s now twenty-five, he’s older, more grown up, it’s evident in his eyes, the way he stands, the way he’s dressed. No more t-shirts and joggers, but a suit and tie. It’s nearing two in the morning. It’s cold. 

Ten looks just as surprised to see Kunhang. His eyes are still cat-like, his slanted slightly upwards, still starry. Kunhang feels rooted to the same spot, unable to move. He physically can’t – it feels like he’s hallucinating. It’s the cold. It must be the cold, he thinks. He’s gone insane. 

“Ten,” he whispers. 

“Kunhangie.” 

The nickname. His nickname that he had grown out a long time ago. A smile. And Kunhang mirrors Ten’s own. It’s still, after six long years, enchanting. 

They stand before each other. And wow, was Ten always that short? Kunhang was nearly a head taller. 

“Kunhangie,” Ten softly says, “how much you’ve grown. You’re so grown up now, look at you! You’re taller than me and so handsome, so so handsome.” 

“I missed you.” Kunhang’s thoughts all merged into one big one – one desire, the one of longing, a wish that was now fulfilled. “I really missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” Ten says solemnly. “I was wondering how you were if you were doing well if you still play the piano. But of course you do, I saw you on television. You play so brilliantly.” 

“I’m good, now.” 

“Your voice is so deep.” Ten comments. He can’t take his eyes off Kunhang. 

“Yours is the same,” Kunhang teases, “you haven’t changed much.” 

“You’ve changed a lot.” Ten ignores his teasing. “You’ve come so far.” 

Kunhang feels a lump forming in his throat. He almost chokes up a sob, too overwhelmed by overflowing emotions he desperately tried to suppress. 

“Why didn’t you kiss me that day?” Kunhang asks the question that plagued his mind for so many years. Even after six years, he could still feel Ten’s breath ghosting over his lips, the eyelashes that tickled his cheeks, and how Ten put his finger on his lips before theirs could collide. 

“Why?” Ten laughed. “It’s that simple, Kunhangie because I fell in love with you.” 

In love? Kunhang was taken aback, but then again Ten never was the one to beat around the bush. Although, Ten’s honest words made Kunhang feel something foreign, something he hasn’t felt in a long long time, and at the same time they made his worries, about their age difference, the difference in their maturity, disappear entirely. 

“I don’t quite understand,” Kunhang whispers, “isn’t that the more the reason to have kissed me? Or to have let me kiss you?” 

“No, Kunhangie.” Ten replies. “If I had kissed you back then, I knew I would have reached the point of no return. Our relationship, our friendship, would have crossed another stage, a stage so risky and unreliable, a stage we couldn’t have returned to anymore. You can suppose I was scared. If I had kissed you, I would have wanted more – to be with you, but, again, I was scared. Of the distance, of the difference in our ages back then, I mean I was nineteen and reckless, and you were even younger. So I thought if we stayed as acquaintances our parting wouldn’t hurt as much rather than if we parted as lovers, but god was I wrong! It hurt immensely, I missed you so much, I missed your smile, your purity, collected personality, the way you were so caring, your strong hands, your face – all of you. 

“Trust me, when I realized I fell for you, ever since you played Mozart for me, it was terribly hard. I desperately wanted something more, but I understood that summer romances end in winter heartbreak, so I refrained from anything, to save both of us, but I guess it backfired, eh? 

“Six years later, here we are.” Ten smiles, albeit a bit sadly. “It’s like life is giving us another shot.” 

“It’s very merciful of life to do that.” 

“I’m not going to waste another six years of precious time because of my cowardliness,” Ten says, determined. He puts one hand on Kunhang’s shoulder and places Kunhang’s own hand over his waist. It’s awfully nostalgic. There’s a sad violin playing somewhere in the background. 

“That’s a good idea, I suppose,” Kunhang pulls Ten closer, just like he did six years ago, and Ten knocks their foreheads together. 

“Hypothetically speaking, if I asked for you to kiss me, would you oblige?” Ten’s voice is quiet and serene, it’s barely audible, but Kunhang hears him loud and clear. The night is tranquil in their favour; they’re both waltzing in their own little world. 

“Hypothetically speaking, yes, I would.” 

Kunhang brings one of his hands up to Ten’s face and caresses it lightly, before angling his chin upwards. Ten looks so small, so beautiful, Kunhang is star-struck. 

He leans their faces together, and the next turn of events is like a replay of six years ago, only with an alternative ending, or maybe this is the supposed original ending after all. Kunhang closes his eyes and Ten does too, and in slow-motion, their lips meet in a short-lasting kiss. It lasts barely a few seconds, but to Kunhang it feels like an eternity. It’s exhilarating. Kunhang has never felt so alive. It’s like the excruciatingly long wait is finally over, and he finally is reunited with Ten again, hopefully for good. He leans in again, grasping for more. He _needs more_ ; a part of him is still in denial that Ten is actually right then and there, under the Moscow night, in his arms, with his lips on his. 

Ten kisses just like Kunhang imagined he would – slow and full of emotion. Ten is a dancer, he’s better at conveying is words through actions, and Kunhang finally realizes that his feelings aren’t one-sided, that they never were. He smiles into the kiss. 

Before things could turn explicit, Kunhang pulled back slightly and put his finger on Ten’s lips, making the latter whine in disapproval. 

“Do not tease me, young man!” 

“I am not,” Kunhang shushes. “I suggest we take this to my apartment. Wouldn’t want to traumatise passerby’s further.” 

“Oh, alright,” Ten flushes. He looks so young. As if he hasn’t aged at all. As if time has stopped for both Ten and him for over six years and only resumed when they kissed. 

Kunhang no longer feels trapped, nor hollow, nor lost. He takes Ten’s hand in his and kisses the back of his palm as they walk to the metro, only to realize that the subway is closed. 

They laugh; Kunhang hails a taxi, and a yellow rundown car arrives barely minutes later with a tired-looking middle-aged driver. Kunhang and Ten ride in silence, although their hands stay interlocked on Kunhang’s thigh. When the driver isn’t looking, Kunhang continues to place little kisses on the back of Ten’s palm and on each of his knuckles, inciting shy smiles from the latter. 

Ten’s suit is as black as the night, his hair is too, his earrings twinkle under the moonlight like little stars. Their hands are strongly clasped in a tight embrace. 

It’s how it was always supposed to be. 

 

______________________________________ 

 

At the age of twenty-two, Kunhang is in the spotlight with thousands of spectators watching him create music with the tips of his fingertips. It’s not a classical concert, but a jazz one. One of his former close friends had told him they adored jazz, and so Kunhang rearranged whatever he knew, and gave old compositions a new sound, a new life. 

His current lover sits in the audience – front row – it’s Ten, it can only be Ten, and no one else. 

Kunhang plays. He pours his soul, his feelings, himself, into the music. It’s levitating; Kunhang closes his eyes and feels as light as a feather as if gravitation has been switched off. His fingers gently press the keys even on crescendos and fortissimos. He’s gentle, overly gentle with every instrument his plays. The Bösendorfer grand piano sounds exquisite under his command, however, he still prefers his old Petrof. For a moment he thinks of his grandmother, his mother, how they pushed him to pursue a career in music, how eternally he’s grateful for their assistance and guidance. 

His fingers and mind detach – his fingers become one with the piano and play by themselves while his mind goes down a trip down memory lane. Often Kunhang finds himself daydreaming when he plays, he dissociates from reality and lets his thoughts roam free. 

Tonight, he’s thinking about one thing. His mind wanders to the electronic piano in Washington, the one on which he first played for Ten. Fantasia in D minor. He smiles to himself. Nostalgia feels warm. 

Before he knows it, the hall is filled with countless applauses and with a standing ovation. Kunhang doesn’t believe his eyes. The way he feels – it’s indescribable. The pure feeling of thrill, happiness, ecstasy flows and bursts inside of him in the brightest of fireworks. 

Kunhang bows ninety degrees, and yet the audience is still clapping. Ten looks at him with stars in his eyes. To him, Ten is brighter than the spotlight he’s under. Kunhang almost blows him a kiss, but refrains. Instead, he sits by the instrument and plays once more – the last piece for the night but one of the many pieces for the future. 

Backstage, Ten kisses him sensually. He cards his fingers through Kunhang’s hair, presses his lips over his jaw and neck, grips onto him like a lifeline. There’s want written all over Ten’s gaze, longing, yearning, desire. Kunhang obliges to all of his wishes, let’s Ten kiss him all over. 

“You were right,” Kunhang breathes out raggedly, hair ruffled and bow tie messed up. 

“About what?” 

Ten plays with Kunhang’s long strands of raven hair on his nape, mirth in his eyes, happiness in his smile. He’s so so bright, so blinding. Kunhang swears he’s more than a little in love. 

"It's definitely fate."

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve always wanted to base a fic in moscow idk why


End file.
